Flannery O’Connor Hates You

Posted in Observation, Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags , , , , , , on March 20, 2021 by Jarrod Boyle

I’d never read Flannery O’Connor until lockdown. I’d seen her listed as one of the outstanding writers of the twentieth century, specifically in terms of her short stories. I had time on my hands, so I bought her collected works.

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Happy 60th Birthday, Henry Rollins

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Real Men, resistance training with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2021 by Jarrod Boyle

The first disturbing event of first-year university was the day I went to meet a childhood friend of mine when he was discharged from the insane asylum.

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Why I Don’t Believe in the Patriarchy (But Still Consider Myself a Feminist)

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2021 by Jarrod Boyle


When Lisa Wilkinson explained on ‘The Project’ television program that Eurydice Dixon was murdered by a man who was the pointy end of a patriarchal culture which is driven to murder women as it sexualises them, I was outraged.

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Why I Don’t Believe in the Patriarchy (But Still Consider Myself A Feminist).

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2021 by Jarrod Boyle


The patriarchy is like Satan, the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. Sure, there’s some kind of cause and effect involved, but the figure itself is bought into being by those wanting to explain more subtle and complex phenomena, but are happy to settle for an easy answer with a face on it.

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‘Ashes in Your Mouth’: Spending Time in Giovanni’s Room.

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading on February 7, 2021 by Jarrod Boyle

“You think,” [Jacques] persisted, “That my life is shameful because my encounters are. And they are. But you should ask yourself why they are.”

“Why are they – shameful?”

“Because there is no affection in them, and no joy. It’s like putting an electric plug in a dead socket. Touch, but no contact. All touch, but no contact and no light.”

“I asked him, ‘Why?”

“That you must ask yourself,” he told me, “And perhaps one day this morning will not be ashes in your mouth.”

– James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room,

P. 49

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Posted in Surgery with tags , , , , on January 24, 2021 by Jarrod Boyle

I act nonchalant and brush off people’s demonstrations of care and concern, but the truth is, I fear hospital like your dog fears the vet.

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Guard Dog in the Temple of the Goddess

Posted in sonnet with tags , , on December 25, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

The Goddess stirs within the temple deep

Candles flicker on the sun-burnished gong

Waked by the rasping of her naked feet

I observe the enigma of the throne

With their robes and candles, their cymbals and bells

Priests conform to scripture, and its motions

Down through the dark universe of her smell

I track along instinct and devotion

Attendant and vigilant to her needs

Obedient to her hands and what they hold

Faithful to her heart and what she loves

My beating heart and her unsandalled feet

The separate, susurrant, resonant poles

That span these sun-warmed, midnight temple stones.

‘Art With Values’.

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading, Real Men, trauma with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 22, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

There’s a friend of mine, a very successful artist, who I admire very much. I met him twenty years ago when we were working together in a dirty nightclub in South Melbourne; he was collecting glasses and I was bouncing. We both aspired to art, and he hit critical pay-dirt much earlier than I (who am I fooling – I still haven’t got there).

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‘…Just Don’t Put It on the Internet.’

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading with tags , , , , , , , on December 15, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle


This has been written to disturb you.


Summon your personal incarnation of this figure into your mind’s eye and look through it like a lens while you’re reading this. 

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Ode to the XR6 Turbo

Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags , , on December 4, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

The tyres shrieking their demand for traction

Where the road crests the brow of the mountain

Afternoon is a golden smelter in

The crucible of the speedometer

The ceramic squeal of heated rotors

As brakes negotiate with the motor

Stark black warnings screaming from yellow signs

Driven by rhythm of white centre line

A hare, erect and startled, stands roadside

Headlights fulminate in its amber eyes

One figure riveted as sentinel

To the flipside of the other’s vigil

Iron grey dusk rears up, pure reverie

As the turbo howls like a Valkyrie

…Because every bloke should write a poem about his car.

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